Things to do during Easter week in Bogotá

Sorry but believe it or not I have been a busy girl, I promise to update the blog with lots of adventures soon.

The word of the day: El via crucis: the via crucis, from latin meaning the path that Jesus took, or twelve stations of the cross.

I am not Catholic. That makes me a big weirdo here in Colombia. I am on one side of the family a great-great granddaughter of a Catholic priest, the granddaughter of a Presbyterian, and a Mason. On the other side there are the hidden Jews, and a high level Rosicrucian. I am best summoned up by my best friend Heidi, as a coming from the best Pagan, Jewish, witch stock. There is some Catholic thrown in for good measure, since up until the new constitution of 1982, being Catholic was de jure. There no civil marriages, baptism certificates instead of birth certificates, and 90% of schools were Catholic. But the reality is when you have anti-establishment parents you don’t grow up Catholic. You grow up liberal, secular with a dash of Pagan, Jewish, witchiness.

Having said that I do respect all forms of worship and religious expressions that do not have as a premise ignoring the universal declaration of human rights. A nice secular document that sums up nicely for me how we should behave. It has been five years since I have spent an Easter week in Colombia and I had forgotten the religious frenzy that it elicits. Please take in to account I am calling it Easter week, and not spring break. While they are the same thing in the calendar they are not the same thing in practice.

With my background I always feel like I am on the outside looking in when it comes to religious activities. I might attend a service, be moved, agree, even enjoy the ritual and sermon, but it is not mine. It is not my ritual or my celebration I am simply a guest. I am polite and interested, but I am a guest nonetheless. So this particular week I am not just a Gringa. I am the Pagan, Jewish, witch Gringa in the holiest of all Catholic celebrations.

During Easter week, the Bogotá is quiet as everything shuts down. All public institutions, businesses, and schools close down. Most bogotanos chose to go out of town, to either their hometown, a shrine, or to spend the week somewhere warm. The roads and airports are bogged down. If you stay or come to Bogotá you do so for mainly religious reasons, since all other attractions and institutions are closed. All secular sights are closed, no museums, theaters, or galleries are open. Movie theaters, and a very few restaurants are the rare exception.

Some popular churches expect and will have ten to twenty thousand people in one day. That is just the people who go for a look-see, a confession, or a blessing. It does not count those participating in rituals or masses. The main streets downtown, where the older colonial churches are located, are closed for pedestrian traffic. Crowds walk from one church to another in a combination of what is part ritual, and part local tourism. You see people go from one mass to another, or they plan an all day event at their favorite church. This is a family affair, grandparents, parents, teenagers and children all squeezed in to the church benches. Sandwiches, and drinks are packed up with the baby’s diapers, and grandmother’s shawl.

Monday we decide to go up to Monserrate, the church up on the mountainside over looking the city. I have never been before, in part because for years I have been told it is too dangerous. There are three ways of arriving up 2682 meters feet, the Teleferico, the Funicular or on foot. Or I should say on your knees. It is a common sight to see worshipers of the brown virgin, climb on their knees all 10, 341 feet. It is a way to ask for a favor, pay back a favor, or just show your devotion to the virgin that overlooks/blesses the city. We go up the Teleferico, a small, modern and fast way to zip up the Andes. It is not long before we see the city ahead of us as my ears pop on our way up. As soon as we get out we are pelted by rain. It is our worst nightmare, with a rush of people trying to find a place to hide out. Luckily the rain does not last. And the view of city starts to reveal itself between the clouds. It is breath taking.

The church is not yet filled with the faithful for the holy week. At the top of the altar is the brown fallen Christ. Unlike other churches this Christ is not on a cross, but rather lying on his side he looks out on his believers. It is eleven am, and there is already two people entering on their knees. The most memorable is a young woman accompanied by her mother and sister. She sheds tears as she nears the altar. She manages to compose her self, as she continues on her knees, to the bench where her family waits. She looks serene as she slowly manages to sit down.

The fervor in the church is overwhelming, and we leave. The sun has decided to come out in full force and we walk uphill. Replicas of the brown virgin, and the fallen Christ look out the tightly packed booths. They are mainly religious items, with some crafts thrown in. Photo shopped posters of the fallen Christ next to a Transmilenio bus are popular. Is it an allusion to the fact that the buses can’t run you over? Or that the buses are so safe because the Christ is looking out for us bus riders? I forget to ask about them when my eight year old little brother begins to ask for one of the goat hoofs. At first I think they are plastic replicas of goat hoofs made to look like bottles. No in this country you do just the opposite. You make goats hoofs in to bottles, with a small-carved inscription on the nail bed. “A souvenir of my trip to Monserrate, 2007.”

My first reaction is disgust, but my brother insists. When he quickly realizes I am not going to bend on this, he scampers over to our father. And he gets his goat hoof; now dangling from his belt buckle, as we continue to climb up to the pone air food stalls. The stalls are filled with arepas de choclo, pan de bono, almojabanas, buñuelos, and empanadas. The ladies call out with their lunch menu trying to entice you to enter their stand. One in particular is very large, almost cafeteria style with a view to the mountainside. In a glass counter large sheets of chicharron, roast chickens, and a variety of sausages are displayed. We keep on going down the path to the end where a clearing in the beginning of the forest. A small stand is in amongst the rocks. It sells soft drinks, and chips. This is where the poor who can’t afford the formal food stands gather to eat something. There is trash strewn in one corner of the clearing. My father once again bemoans the lack of discipline in Colombia.

“Why can’t the church require people to have trash containers?” He asks to no one in particular.

We leave the clearing and decide to find out the prices of the two formal restaurants that are located in front of the church. On our way back we pass through the sculpture garden with the Stations of the Cross. Groups of families walk rosary in hand, praying as they come up hill. The sun blares, in a way that it can only do in the Andes. Bright, clear, and at times blinding.

The St. Clair restaurant is perched on the mountain. Its’ wooden gazebo structure is simple but beautiful. We decide to stay and have an amazing meal. Even my brother, who is a picky eater, eats all of his food. Sooner rather than later most eight year-old´s are going to want to run around. And that time comes, I escort my brother in to what ends up being a marathon session of running up and down the hill. I get weird glances as I chase after my brother. They are a combination of: she is too old to be running around like that and we are not being respectful of the sanctuary.

When we decide to leave, we choose to go down the Teleferico. The line is long, and though the attendant keeps on announcing that the Funicular has no line, few budge. After a half an hour wait we go down in less than ten minutes. And we are back down in Bogotá´s rainy streets.

Next Part 2: Rain, libraries and a craft fair.

Part 2-So what can you do in six hour and fifty-six minutes in Bogotá?

Well for starters if you can have the city shut down, there is no traffic. Getting from point A to point B is so much easier without buses weaving about, people crossing in the middle of the street, or the occasional burro pulling a cart. Yes, it is a bad stereotype, but it is true you see zorras-donkeys pulling the informal recycling sector around town. We are still a nation in development.

Bush started his trip with a formal receiving line. The military, politicians and diplomatic staff all dressed in their Sunday best showed up. Bush showed his manners when he did not salute, place his hand on his heart, or acknowledge that the Colombian anthem was playing. Never mind that Uribe had done that when the American anthem was playing. Uribe and his wife both raised their hands to their hearts as “Oh, say! can you see by the dawn's early light” was played by the military band.

After those the formalities were taken care of, they had a nice lunch. Where the television cameras caught, one of Uribe’s sons with a forbidden cell phone in hand. He was also photographed getting smacked by his father for putting his hands in his pockets during the welcoming ceremony.

In the meantime the opposition party had asked people to come out for a peaceful protest at the Plaza de Toros. The plan was a couple of speeches for the cameras and no more. Downtown was closed so any actual march would be impossible. The usual rag tag group of liberals showed up. Tie dye hippies, anti-globalization kids, Chavistas (Venezuelan president Hugo Chavez supporters), a big chunk of them sporting some variation of Che on their t-shirts. Speeches were made, as the riot police proceeded to surround the protesters. Quickly the protesters began to, in good old leftist fashion, start fighting with the police. Rocks started to fall upon the police, who kept pushing the small crowd with their shields. Two hours later a chunk of the downtown not cordoned off by the Colombian military and American security, is destroyed. The best image that summoned up the craziness of the situation is a brick set in to a shattered ATM screen.

The rumor around town is that the “protestors” who started the rock throwing were infiltrated secret police. Thereby giving them a reason to arrest the protestors with the pretext that they were destroying public property, endangering the public safety, and congregating illegally. Once the violence started the cops had a hard time getting it to stop. Which is why that part of town looked like a war broke out. There were 120 arrests of mainly of teenage boys.

On the plus side George and Laura got to take home some lovely souvenirs. They had a great photo op with Juan Valdez, Colombia’s fictional coffee spokesman, and crafts representatives. Bush got the same distinct white hat that Uribe sports, an Aguadeño. During this photo-op was all joshing and manly bonding. The truth behind it all is that Uribe’s sons have set up a business “promote” Colombian handicrafts. And the photo-op was a nice commercial for this business.

I am a longtime fan of Colombian crafts. They are excellent. The people who do this work need and deserve all the promotion they can get. Beautiful things are made in Colombia, by generation after generation of crafts masters. From clothing, to furniture, the way people work with natural materials is amazing. But there is a big difference between promoting this work and taking advantage of the fact your father is president. Up until recently the address and phone number for their private company was the presidential palace (the equivalent to the Whitehouse). It is a nice way to make sure people buy your product. I am not saying that they have political influence. But not to many producers of Sombreros Voltiao, can claim so many prestigious customers. This situation can lend it self as an easy way of hiding any political favors.

So what did Colombia gain from Bush’s visit? Nothing. It did not help the political and social problems of Colombia. It just helped highlight them.

So Bush comes in to town,

Part 1.

I wish my title were the beginning of a joke. But no such luck, President Bush came to Bogotá on a Sunday for exactly six hours and fifty-six minutes. He brought with him Laura and 6,000 people, mainly security and probably a royal food tester. Though the food tester is not confirmed and is probably a rumor. There are lots of rumors, secret escape routes, missiles pointed at Colombia, and more spies on the streets than Bogotános.

Five days before his arrival the city is already tense. You see more police and military on the streets. We live near the National University, historically a hot bed of activism and well known for having the city’s best rock throwers. When there is a protest it usually starts and ends at the university, with rocks flying and cops throwing tear gas. So the Friday before his highness arrives the university unofficially shuts down. As students fail to arrive individual professors cancel classes. As the day goes on you hear rumbling down the street. I quickly come to the conclusion that the biggest danger to Bush is a rock, not a rocket launcher.

Our phone line is suddenly cut, and so is our Internet access. Since our Internet connection is via a cable modem to have the two services cut simultaneously does not make sense. We wonder if we forgot to pay the bills. When we call the phone company the automated recording informs us that there are “repairing” lines in our area, near the U.S. Embassy, and downtown near the presidential palace. So, sorry for the inconvenience.

Testing our connection after a while we can get national web-pages, El Tiempo, and El Heraldo come in fine, New York Times, Yahoo, Google, are blocked. Cable-Net issues an apology via the local news outlets, they are having technical difficulties. Repairs must be made during the weekend. My Colombian paranoia kicks in-the Gringos are cutting off communication! We end up with out service for forty-eight hours, the right amount of time for Bush to arrive and leave.

As a result we decide to spend the weekend at home. I was invited to go out dancing Saturday night but cancel. Twenty-four hours before Bushes arrival there is dry law enforced. No alcohol from 1am Saturday until 1am Sunday. All the clubs would close early, and on Sunday there will be no beer with your lunch. In a town were el carajillo is an everyday afternoon drink you soon realize it is a very boring weekend if you are not planning on throwing rocks.

The city comes to a standstill, you hardly see a soul on the streets. Bush’s welcoming committee consists of a half a dozen people along Kennedy avenue. The avenue named for President Kennedy during his 1961 visit. He went down the avenue with Jackie by his side. A whole neighborhood is named after him. People still remember nostalgically the last great and friendly American president who waved to them from his convertible. OK convertible today is probably not a great idea, but it is friendlier than the decoy motorcade that fools the half of dozen locals hoping to get a glimpse of Bush. When Clinton came to Cartagena, he was pronounced a saint by the locals and his photos were put on altars right next to el niño dios (the christ child, if anybody has image an please send it to me). It didn´t hurt that whole streets and neighborhoods were repaved to have his motorcade pass by. There is a whole bunch of eight and nine year old boys named Clinton running around the coast. And no he did not father them, his warmth and charisma charmed the pants off Cartageneros who are jaded by tourists.

With Bushes visit CNN continuously announces how brave it is for him to come to Colombia. And what a security risk he is taking, the usual bad rap, down to a nice mention of all the rebel and insurgency groups we have. President Uribe and the Colombian army would rather be caught with their pants down with a thirteen year-old boy prostitute than have the wind ruin Bush hairdo. The city feels locked down tight.

As usual the American’s aren’t taking any risks. They proceed to publicly humiliate the Colombian army in plain view of the television cameras. All weapons must be inspected by the FBI, and they line all the Colombian soldiers and one by one take their weapons inspect them and send them on their merry way. They do this to all soldiers, from the presidential guards to generals. I am not a big fan of the Colombian army but instead of having the security check in a tented off area they do it in plain sight. It is as if daddy came home and he needs to make sure you washed behind your ears and he does it in front of all your friends.

next: so what can you do in Bogotá in six hours and fifty-six minutes?

One seventies slight mullet anyone?

Next time instead of a 4-dollar haircut I should get a ten dollar one.

Word of the day: El Peluquero: The hairdresser

My father is fastidious when it comes to personal grooming. Everything must tailored to fit and be ironed, shirt, t-shirt, and jeans. Yes, even jeans must have a nice crease down the middle. Needless to say I don’t exactly have the same standards. I can dress up with the best of them, but it is not a daily occurrence. Add to it the fact that I am mainly working from home and you have me no make-up, jeans and t-shirt everyday. But my father’s meticulousness is an, ni hora, ni fecha en el calendario, and 24/7 ongoing searches for what is wrong with me. It is once again my hair turn. Once again because several different things take their turn with what is wrong with me. They are: my hair, my skin, my choice of clothing, my choice of shoes, the fact that my shoes are not shined, that I am too heavy or too thin.

So his tune go get a haircut has been getting louder and louder. He offers to pay for it, to recommend a place, and finally to do it himself. So I accept to go to the local hairdresser, two blocks away. Most Colombian women before going to the hairdresser, doctor, or corner store dress up, put on makeup and heels. I am,let us not forget a Gringa, so I put on my daily uniform. T-shirt, jeans, flats and off I go.

The very gay hairdresser, Gabriel from Medellin, took one look at me, and said silently to himself, one mullet coming up! In his very cute decorated jeans, and tight t-shirt he proceeded to tell me that my hair is really dry. Oh and! Do you realize you have lots of white hairs? I told him I thought they weren’t that many and that they made me look distinguished. Distinguished was probably the wrong word, a tad too butch. It did not matter that I told him that I was growing my hair out, or that I just wanted a trim. One mullet on the double!

Hair salons are institutions in Colombia. They can be as elaborate as museums, or little hole in the walls but they are always busy. They are full of women, cutting, dying, plucking, shaping, straightening, curling, and their hair on a weekly basis. I have heard of women who would rather cheat on their husbands than their hairdresser.

After Gabriel finished with the mullet, I tried not to scream. I silently was stewing, when he started to brush the hairs off my face. I told him not to bother that I was going home to shower. That night I had an event and I would be dressing up and putting on makeup. With his well-manicured eyebrow rose- “You put on make up?

“Yes, why?”

“Oh I thought you didn’t put any on” giggle!

The man just met me, I just walked off the street! How would he know?

“Well you just don’t seem like the type.”

That is when I understood that in this increasing Barbiefication of Colombian women, a girl like me is a lesbian. And she deserves a mullet.

Adendum: After reading this post my sister confirms that she too has had ¨boyish¨ haircuts despite her specific instructions. She never could understand why until she read this post. She agrees that unless you are a girly girl, you don´t get a ¨feminine¨ haircut or treatment.